This Was Pompeii
by Swing Girl At Heart
Summary: It took less than two seconds for their lives to change forever.
1. Full Steam Ahead

_Full Steam (Ahead)  
><em>

As a college student majoring in Education and Foreign Studies, Will Schuester thought he already knew what exhaustion was, but it wasn't until he had to drive a school bus full of rowdy teenagers for sixteen hours straight two days in a row that he learned what it meant to be really, _truly_ fatigued. Why the National Show Choir trustees had decided to host the competition in Seattle this year, he'd never know, and an even bigger mystery was how in the name of _hell_ every kid on the bus was acting as if they'd chugged three cans of Red Bull. The only people who looked remotely sleepy were the chaperones and Kurt, whom Will had heard complaining of a serious lack of beauty sleep resulting from having to share a motel room in Bismarck, North Dakota with five boys bent on pelting each other to death with Nerf bullets.

After the previous year's destruction of hotel property in New York, Figgins had strictly demanded that this year there had to be two chaperones of each gender, so after a meeting of all the Gleeks' parents, he'd accepted three volunteers – Carole Hudson, Walter Jones, and Susan Lopez (the last of whom was more than a little reluctant). So now, Will was looking forward to arriving at their venue in Seattle and taking a quick power-nap before their pre-performance rehearsal without worrying that all the kids would run off and disappear like Ringo in _A Hard Day's Night_.

Back in the rear of the bus, Puck and Lauren were making faces and rude gestures at the cars passing by, and Kurt and Mercedes were sharing the headphones to Mercedes' iPod and singing along loudly to the _Dreamgirls_ soundtrack. Finn was leaning his back against the window and trying to listen to Rachel (who had moved to the seat in front of him so he could stretch out his legs) prattle on about the importance of getting his dance moves perfected before the competition, and was mostly succeeding only in a blank stare. Quinn was sitting in front of Kurt and Mercedes and trying to read the latest issue of _Elle_, but failing since Sam had turned around in his seat to talk to her. In front of Sam, Mike and Tina seemed to be having some sort of contest to see who could make the other laugh first, and ahead of them, Santana was quietly scowling at Brittany and Artie's sickeningly adorable PDA.

As the final notes of _One Night Only_ drew to a close, Kurt yawned and pulled the earbud out of his ear, returning it to Mercedes. "Sorry, but I seriously need to take a nap if I'm going to stay upright on stage," he said with a smile. "Wake me up if anything gossip-worthy happens." He gave her a wink.

As Kurt leaned his head against the window and shut his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest, Mercedes left the remaining earbud in her ear and switched her iPod to a Rihanna album. Her phone buzzed against her leg and she fished it out of her pocket to see a text from her mother: _Good luck this afternoon! Say hi to Pop for me. xoxo. _About to type a reply, a sudden dip in the road jostled the bus and caused her to drop the phone, which bounced once on the floor and then slid under Quinn's seat. Mercedes reached for it, but it lay a maddeningly few inches out of her grasp, then slid forward a little further as the bus hit another small bump.

Up ahead, Santana was approaching the front of the bus, keeping her balance by bracing her hands against the passenger seats. "Santana, sit down!" her mother hissed.

Santana rolled her eyes, placing her rear end on the massive console that contained the gear shift. "Fine," she snapped.

"You see what I have to put up with?" Mrs. Lopez said to Will, who was trying to stay awake in the driver's seat.

"Britt's gonna blow," Santana told him.

"Sorry?"

"She's not feeling well," the younger Lopez clarified. "She thinks she's preggo again because the stork outside her window is still there. And I saw that bird – it's not even a stork. It's a pigeon. I keep telling her not to eat crayons, but…" She trailed off with a shrug. "Anyways, you should pull over unless you want to clean up barf."

Will sighed. He would _so_ love to take a break right now, maybe close his eyes for a minute… "Sorry, Santana, we don't have time to stop. Have her open the window and see if anyone has a plastic bag or something."

Santana huffed and stood up to go back to her seat, but then several things happened in the blink of an eye. First, she became aware of the bus floor suddenly bucking under her feet, and she was thrown hard into Carole's side as the four-ton vehicle skidded sideways. A half a second later, there was a rushing cascade of sounds: a piercing scream that had come from either Tina or Lauren, splintering glass and screeching, groaning metal buckling in on itself as if the bus was suddenly being crumpled like aluminum foil.

In the back, Mercedes, who had been still reaching for her phone, felt the earbud rip out of her ear. She yelped and let out a grunt as the sudden violent jerk of the bus caused her to lose her seat and land on the floor in the aisle. Out of the corner of her eye, she very briefly registered that same thing had happened to Tina. A loud squeal filled the air as she felt the rear end of the bus swing in an arc across the road, the rear tires crunching as they slid onto the gravel shoulder. Mercedes screamed as she was thrown against the legs of the passenger side benches and the back of her head exploded in pain.

And then, suddenly, the only sound she could hear was the ringing of her ears and, far off in the distance, traffic screeching to a halt.

Eventually, Mercedes became aware that the bus had stopped moving and, amazingly, it was still upright. The back of her head was pounding as if someone had hit her from behind with a crowbar, and someone was shaking her shoulder and repeating her name.

"Come on, Mercedes," Lauren said. "Mercedes, _get your ass up!_"

Mercedes' eyes snapped open and she immediately began to try to pull herself to her feet, but a strong hand on her shoulder stopped her. "Don't stand up," said Lauren, who was on her hands and knees behind Mercedes. She glanced up to see a solid ceiling of steel only a foot above her head. "What the—" she started.

"Don't ask," said Lauren. "Just go." Mercedes frowned at the other girl. Lauren's eyes were wide and terrified, her voice low. The air was clogged with the heavy scent of wet copper, iron, gasoline and something else she couldn't quite identify. "_Go!_"

Mercedes finally pulled herself up onto her hands and knees. Then, something on the floor to her left caught her eye, and she froze, her throat closing up.

It was a severed forearm, clothed in the sleeve from Kurt's jacket.

"Oh, God," she breathed, feeling panic bubble in her gut and bile rise in her esophagus. "Oh, God." Kurt's other forearm was lying against the wall by his feet. "_Kurt!_" she screamed.

"Don't look!" Lauren yelled. "_Go!_"

"_Kurt!_" Mercedes cried again, staring at the several pairs of legs still seated on most of the benches.

"Just _go!_ Or I swear to God, I will push you out of here!" Lauren shrieked, her voice suddenly uncharacteristically high. She gave Mercedes a rough nudge, forcing her to begin to crawl forward.

"Lauren?" Mr. Schue called from the front of the bus, his voice trembling. "Is that you?"

"Yeah," she answered. "Mercedes is with me."

"Oh, thank God." Up ahead, she saw that Mr. Schue was kneeling down in the aisle where the steel ceiling ended with his hand stretched towards them. Mercedes grabbed it and he pulled her to her feet, then reached back to help Lauren. "Are you guys okay?"

In the pit of her stomach, Mercedes knew that she should not have looked back towards the rear of the bus. Somehow, though, her head had turned of its own accord, and she couldn't help but let out a scream. Mr. Schue's arms grabbed her from behind and tried to pull her away towards the bus door. "No!" she half-sobbed, pushing against her teacher's hold. "_No!_"

An enormous sheet of metal had nearly bisected the bus, coming in from the driver's side at an angle, the corner punching out of the other side, and only stopping just shy of where Finn had been sitting (Finn was no longer there) but leaving the entire front of the bus unaffected. The seat where Lauren and Puck had been was also untouched, but Puck was leaning limply against the window, his eyes closed and blood dripping onto his shoulders from the back of his head. The top of the metal sheet was covered in millions of scattered glass shards from the windows and more blood than Mercedes had seen in her life.

A slurred groan made her gaze snap to Sam, whose upper body was lying in the middle of the bus, having been separated from his legs just above the hips and thrown to the side. Mercedes let out a pinched sob as Sam's eyes struggled open and looked straight at her, glassed over and distant. A few seconds later, they slid shut.

Finally, Mr. Schue succeeded in half-pushing, half-carrying her off the bus, with Lauren following behind. He brought her over to the road's gravel shoulder, where her father engulfed her in a tight hug, crying with relief. When her dad released her, she saw that Finn, Tina, and Santana had already made it out of the bus and were standing in a huddle along with Finn and Santana's moms. Carole was sobbing almost uncontrollably, her hand over her mouth as she leaned against Finn, who looked utterly lost and not too far from crying himself. Tina had her arms tucked in across her chest, tears quietly streaming down her cheeks and smearing her makeup (Mercedes could have sworn that Tina's hair had been _blue_ that morning), and Santana looked more vulnerable than Mercedes had ever seen her.

Carole drew a long, shaky breath, trying to steady herself. "I have to call Burt," she said, her voice flat.

A wave of nausea slammed into Mercedes, making her dizzy and lightheaded. Her nostrils were overwhelmed with the remaining stench of blood and gasoline in a horrible mix, and her breakfast abruptly christened the pavement.

* * *

><p>Mercedes wasn't really aware of the spectators that had been accumulating, standing by their cars or running up to the bus and asking if everyone was okay. After what felt like hours, there were finally policemen and EMTs and firemen swarming the street, going in and out of the bus and examining the accident from the sidelines. She wanted to smack them, to scream at them to <em>stop staring and DO SOMETHING.<em>

Horrifying images flashed through her head again and again and again:

Sam's eyes closing for what Mercedes understood was the last time.

Brittany and Artie sagging against each other, unmoving, blood pooling around their chests.

Quinn's head and neck lying thrown against the opposite wall, at least ten feet away from the rest of her body.

Rachel's purple unicorn sweater turned almost black and ripped in half.

Mike's upper half lying sprawled amidst glinting shards of glass and blood that may or may not have been his own.

And Kurt. Oh, God, Kurt.

Mercedes buried her face in her hands, trying to block out the sounds of intermittent sirens, shouts, and crying. Her father pulled her closer to his chest.

Mr. Schue seemed to be running on a loop – every couple seconds he would rake his fingers through his hair, swear or say "Oh my God", pace a few steps, and then repeat the process.

Santana, like Mercedes, was taking solace in her parent's hold, remaining completely silent but tear-free and simply staring at the bus with the giant metal sheet sticking out of both sides. About a hundred feet away, the tractor trailer truck that had been carrying the sheet (along with about twenty more sheets in a huge, deadly stack) was parked, and in front of it a police officer was speaking quietly to the driver, a middle-aged woman who was seated on the truck's wheel well and sobbing hysterically into her hands.

"_We've got a live one!_" came an abrupt shout from the bus. Immediately, the heads of all the remaining bus passengers snapped up. Several EMTs scurried over, carrying armloads of medical supplies. "We're gonna need a gurney at the back exit," announced the EMT who had first shouted.

Finn, Santana, Mercedes, Tina, Lauren, Mr. Schue, and the parent chaperones (except for Carole, who was still crying over the phone to Burt) took a few steps toward the back of the bus, holding their breaths and none of them sure who to pray for.

A gurney was swung around to the back of the bus and the rear emergency exit opened. An EMT slid a stretcher onto the floor in the aisle.

Mercedes hated herself for it, but she found herself thinking, _Please be Kurt, please be Kurt, please, God, let it be Kurt_, despite the fact that she had seen with her own eyes what had happened to him.

The EMTs pulled the person from the seat and lowered him onto the stretcher, sliding him out of the bus and onto the gurney. Mercedes saw the small braided bracelet tied around his wrist and caught a glimpse of the dark strip of hair. Her heart sank.

One of the EMTs felt the side of Puck's neck, then quickly yelled, "Someone get me a defibrillator – he's in cardiac arrest!"

Mr. Schue inhaled sharply and clasped his hands in front of his face as if he were praying, watching along with the rest of his remaining students as the small portable machine was rushed from the ambulance to the stretcher. The EMT sliced open Puck's shirt with a pocketknife and placed the paddles on either side of his chest.

"Charging…"

There was a faint _whir_ as the defibrillator powered up.

"Clear!"

A loud, solid _thump_, and Puck's entire body jerked, making the gurney rattle.

"Charging… Clear!"

_Thump._ Puck's eyes remained closed and his body unresponsive. Mercedes heard Mr. Schue whisper a prayer under his breath.

"Charging… Clear!"

_Thump._ Puck's arm dropped off the side of the gurney, his blood-covered head lolling slightly to the side.

"Charging…"

"I got a pulse!" cried the EMT with her fingers on Puck's neck. Her colleague immediately set the defibrillator aside and shone his penlight into Puck's eyes. "Pupils are responsive. He's back. Let's get him to the hospital."

They loaded Puck into the back of the ambulance and drove off, sirens wailing. A policewoman approached them and asked to speak to the driver. Mr. Schue stepped forward. His eyes were still wide in shock and his hands shaking a bit.

The policewoman took out a notepad and pen and asked him to describe exactly what had happened in the moments before the crash.

"I – I don't know, it's all fuzzy," said Mr. Schue. "D-do you know if any of the other kids are okay?"

"I'm afraid that the only survivor we found was the boy in the back."

Mr. Schue ran his fingers through his hair again, staring up at the clear blue sky that was so rare for Seattle. "God, how could this happen?"

The policewoman sighed. "The driver of the other vehicle is also being questioned," she stated, her voice a mix of formality and sympathy. "We're not a hundred percent sure, but right now it looks like the straps holding the construction materials on the back of the tractor trailer either were frayed or they weren't properly secured. We're looking into it now."

Listening to the officer's words, Mercedes wanted to squeeze her hands over her ears like a child. She hated the driver of the tractor trailer, she hated the cheap bus they'd been riding in, she hated the EMTs for saying that _Puck_ was the only one to make it out, and she hated the fact that the sun was shining – in _Seattle_, of all places – as if nothing was wrong.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Please leave a review. There's a lot more to come. Special thanks to Spookykat.  
><strong>


	2. Crash Test Dummies

**A/N: The accident described in the last chapter was in fact based off of a real accident that took place near Tembi, Greece, in 2003 that resulted in the deaths of at least twenty-four people. Most of those deaths occurred on the school bus that was struck by the accidentally-released load of a passing timber truck. Sheets of plywood collided with the school bus with enough force to cut it almost in two, and killed more than half of the bus's passengers, all between the ages of 14 and 16.**

**When this accident occurred, I was living in Thessaloniki, about 75 miles away from Tembi. I knew one of the boys who died on the bus - I didn't know him well, but he was a friend of a few of my classmates at the school I went to in Pilea, and so I saw him fairly often. I hope that this story can pay a little bit of tribute to him. And, if any of you ever happen to visit that part of the world, the shrine with all the victims' names and faces is still there, so please go and light a candle for them.**

* * *

><p><em>Crash Test Dummies<em>

_..  
><em>

"_I'm sure there's a lot of things in your life that you could find to be angry about._"

~Gideon Largeman, _Garden State_

_..  
><em>

Shortly after arriving at the Hudson-Hummel house, Tina decided that she _really_ didn't like funerals. She could handle wearing black (she was used to that), she could swallow the terrible catering and she was okay with sitting off to the sidelines and keeping a low profile. What she _didn't_ think she could handle was the odd-looking painful twist in everyone's faces, the quiet sniffles in the background from the older people in attendance and the many pairs puffy red eyes. It was strange, though… Tina had noticed over the course of the several funerals she'd been to over the past few days that the only dry eyes always belonged to those people that had been closest to whomever the funeral was for. Personally, she hadn't cried since Seattle.

Her train of thought was interrupted when Santana, dressed completely in red, plopped down on the couch next to her and handed her a slice of key lime pie without so much as asking her if she wanted it. Tina accepted it wordlessly, but only held it on her lap. "You're s-supposed to w-wear black," she told the Latina, who was eating her slice of pie with angry, jerky bites, as if the pie had been the thing to kill off half of their core group.

Santana didn't answer for a second, but stopped chewing, giving Tina a look that was half contemplative and half furious. Eventually she shrugged. "Kurt picked this dress out for me for Prom last year. I figured it'd be a tribute to him. If you have a problem with it, you can kiss my ass." She took another bite. "And give up the stutter already. It's fake and we all know it. Jesus."

Tina said nothing in response, setting her untouched plate on the coffee table in front of them.

Santana sighed. "Sorry," she said, trying but not really succeeding in sounding soft.

Tina didn't meet her eye. "It's f-fine. I'll see you later." Smoothing out her skirt, Tina stood up and headed off towards the buffet in the kitchen in the hopes of finding something to eat or drink that wouldn't make her nauseous. Mercedes was at the counter, too, piling a plate high with at least two of everything. She glanced up when Tina approached. "It's not for me," she said with a slight forced smile. "Just trying to get Finn to eat something. Bye." Mercedes turned around and disappeared into the hallway, heading for the stairs.

Tina grabbed a ginger ale from the beverage counter and headed slowly back to the living room, feeling a like she should be doing something a little more physical than migrating back and forth between rooms. She returned to her seat next to Santana, who looked surprised that Tina had come back. "That didn't take long," she said.

Tina shrugged. "Nowhere else to go."

* * *

><p>"Finn, you need to eat something," Mercedes said in lieu of a greeting as she shut the door to Finn's room behind her.<p>

"No, thanks," he said hoarsely, his head resting against his fist. He was dressed in a rumpled black suit and a blue-striped tie and sitting slumped in his desk chair, looking unusually short.

She sighed and dropped the plate of food onto the desk beside him. "You can't hide in here forever, you know."

He swallowed. "Well, what am I supposed to do? How the hell am I supposed to go down there?"

Mercedes sat down on the corner of the bed closest to his chair. "You just have to. I did."

"Yeah, well, you seem to be doing fine," he said bitterly, turning to look out the window.

"Don't you dare," she snapped. "I lost just as many people as you did, so don't you _dare_ tell me I'm okay."

"You lost a few friends, big deal. My brother and my girlfriend—"

Mercedes launched to her feet and deftly slapped Finn across the face. He barely glanced up as she pointed a finger at him and spoke in a low tone. "If you do not snap out of this and accept that we _all_ are in pain right now, then so help me God I will kill you myself."

He shrugged and turned back to the window. Mercedes shook her head, crossing her arms and turning to pace the floor once. "You're a selfish ass. Puck's still in a coma, I've gone to six funerals this week, and Mike's funeral is this afternoon. Do you honestly think that you're the only one going through anything?"

Finn exhaled slowly, chewing on the cuticle of his middle finger. "I just don't know what I'm supposed to do. I'm stuck."

Mercedes looked down at her feet, her arms falling back to her sides. "So am I."

"I just… there's so much _pressure_, you know? People think I'm a leader, but ninety percent of the time, it's Kurt and Rachel telling me what to do. And they're both gone now, and Burt's pretty much catatonic and my mom's going insane trying to make him feel better and _I'm_ left on the sidelines feeling like I should be doing something more than wanting to kill myself."

Mercedes stayed quiet, waiting to see if Finn was finished with his word-vomit.

Instead, he turned to her, making eye contact for the first time since Mercedes had come looking for him two hours ago, and only said one sentence. "Tell me what I have to do."

She shook her head, trying to push down the rock in her throat. "You're asking the wrong person."

* * *

><p>Tina and Santana remained in uncomfortable silence as the rest of the mourners milled about the house. Kurt's father was yet to be seen, but Tina had noticed Carole repeatedly disappearing into the garage for a few minutes and then returning with a fresh stream of tears. Eventually, Lauren sat heavily on the cushion on Santana's other side.<p>

"What, you're on a diet suddenly?" Santana snapped, commenting on the absence of a plate of food in Lauren's hands.

Lauren only rolled her eyes in response, clearly not in the mood for Santana's routine insults.

Santana sighed. "How's Puck doing?"

"Still on life support," Lauren replied. She was the only one who had made time to visit the hospital between the funerals. "The whitecoats still don't know when he'll wake up."

"Just like him," Santana drawled. "Sleeping through everything from math class to wakes."

Tina's eyebrows snapped together. "I don't th-think you can b-b-blame him for anything right now, S-Santana."

Santana was about to retort, but a commotion from the front door drew their attention away. Carole was standing at the door, keeping it half-closed and tearfully saying, "I really, _really_ don't think it's a good idea for you to be here. Please. Please, just leave."

Before she could close the door completely, Blaine strode up quickly and crowed "Dave! Great to see you!" as he shoved past Carole and swiftly punched Karofsky in the jaw. Carole gasped as Blaine and Karofsky tumbled onto the porch, the repeated sound of fist meeting flesh intermittent with grunts as Karofsky tried to push Blaine off him.

The three girls on the couch all stood up and rushed over towards the door, many of the mourners crowding around behind them. Abruptly, Mr. Schue pushed between Santana and Tina, snaking his arms around Blaine's chest and bodily lifting him off of the other boy. He didn't let go and kept his grip around the Warbler as Karofsky coughed and wiped blood off of his nose and cheek, pulling himself to his feet.

Karofsky gave Blaine a strange look, his face contorted into an unreadable expression. Then he swallowed and said to Carole, "Sorry I bothered you," before turning around and walking back to his car.


	3. Edelweiss

_Edelweiss_

..

"_We lead our lives, and when they end, sometimes we leave a little of ourselves behind. Sometimes we leave money, a painting...  
>Sometimes we leave a kind word. And sometimes, we leave an empty space.<em>"

~George Lass, "_Dead Like Me_"

..

Carole had never liked the smell of gasoline before. Now, though, in her head it was permanently tangled with the pungent odors of blood, bile, and bodily acids, and she could smell that nauseating mix every time she entered the small garage attached to the house. But Burt had buried himself in engine grease and paperwork since Kurt's body (or what was left of it) had been transported back to Lima, and so it was Carole's responsibility as the dutiful wife to hold her breath and try her best to get Burt to leave the garage at least once a day to eat. He'd barely shown his face during Kurt's wake, and he'd taken to working all through the night as well. Carole hadn't seen him sleep since before she'd left to take the club to Seattle.

On Monday morning the week after the funeral, Carole leaned tentatively into the garage and called for Burt. "Honey? You in here?" She took a deep breath, trying to ignore the phantom smells clogging her nose and stepped down onto the concrete floor, careful to avoid the few oil slicks that never seemed to quite come out no matter how much they were scrubbed. "Burt?"

"I'm down here," came Burt's voice from the other side of Kurt's Navigator.

Carole came around the front of the car to see Burt's legs sticking out from underneath its belly. "What are you doing?" she asked, kneeling next to his feet.

"Just some calibrations," he answered. "Can you hand me that wrench next to the toolbox?"

Carole obliged, and Burt's hand disappeared back underneath the car. "Honey, does this have to be done now?"

"Yeah."

"Finn needs a ride to school."

There was a metallic clunk and a slight grunt from Burt as he tightened a bolt. "Can you take him? Little busy here."

"Burt…" Carole started, unsure of what to say. "Nobody's using this car."

Burt stopped working, the wrench clanking to the floor, and then pushed himself out from under the car, leaning his back against the side and resting his elbows on his knees. He looked like he'd aged twenty years in the last two weeks. "I know that, Carole, I'm just… I need to be _doing_ something right now. I can't sit still."

She sighed, giving up on keeping her jeans clean and sitting back against the car next to him, leaning her head on his shoulder. She reached over and laced her fingers between his. "I'm worried about you."

Burt inhaled very slowly. "It's okay. I mean… it's not. But – I don't know what I'm trying to say."

"Look, Burt, I know that Kurt wasn't mine from the start, but I want you to know that I lost a son too. I love him just as much as you do, so even if you spend every waking minute in here with your engines, you're not by yourself. I love you, and Finn loves you, and what's more is we _need_ you. I know that Finn is tearing himself apart right now. And so am I, and so are you." She gave a small tearful smile and placed a kiss on Burt's cheek.

Burt was silent for several seconds, staring at his boots. "There was this song," he said eventually, "this lullaby that Kurt's mom used to sing to him whenever he was upset. I think it was called _Sorry For Old Adam_. But… ever since I had to identify Kurt's body—" He choked slightly, wiping away a sudden onset of tears. "Ever since I came back from the morgue, that song… It's just been stuck in my head. It keeps playing over and over and I can't—" He clenched his jaw, drawing in a shaky breath.

Carole said nothing, waiting for him to finish.

It was a few minutes before Burt collected himself enough to speak again. "I can't sit still," he repeated. His eyes were bloodshot. "I can't sit still, and I can't sleep, and I can't call the damn funeral home to order a headstone. I don't even know what the hell the headstone's supposed to _say_."

Carole squeezed his hand. "I'll order it," she told him gently. "I'll come up with something. It'll be okay." Giving him another kiss, she pulled herself to her feet, brushing off the seat of her jeans. "I have to take Finn to school," she said. "I'll see you later. I love you."

Thirty minutes later, Carole had pulled her minivan to a park in front of McKinley High. Finn was sitting silently in the passenger seat, staring nervously at the front doors as the throngs of students migrated through them.

"You don't have to go, you know," Carole said.

Finn gave her a look. "It's the memorial today, Mom. I have to be there."

"Okay. But if you feel like you need to come home, call me right away, all right?"

Finn nodded absentmindedly, grabbing his backpack off the floor between his feet and climbing out of the car. Mercedes waved at him from the top of the steps and stood on her tiptoes to wrap him in a hug when he approached her. "You doing okay?" she asked.

"No, but…" He trailed off with a heavy shrug.

Mercedes nodded understandingly. "Come on, let's go."

* * *

><p>Santana huffed as she dropped her lunch tray onto the table beside Tina, who had been eating quietly alone and looked up in confusion as the Latina sat in the chair next to her. "I can't believe I'm eating this crap," Santana said, stabbing a mushy baby carrot with her plastic fork.<p>

"You don't have t-to eat it," Tina said, choosing not to mention that it probably wasn't unusual for Santana to skip lunch.

Santana shrugged. "Whatever."

Tina turned her attention back to her own lunch, which she'd thankfully brought from home, but she was feeling sick to her stomach and resorted to simply prodding at the already-browned apple slices on her napkin.

"Are you not eating?"

Tina glanced up to see Santana looking at her with… well, mild interest if not concern. It was a strange expression to see on the self-proclaimed Head Bitch's face. She shrugged and merely said she wasn't feeling well.

"So not looking forward to the assembly this afternoon," Santana said, changing the subject. "We've had zero rehearsal time, and the BFG is probably going to trip and fall off the stage."

Tina's hand suddenly slammed down on the table of its own accord, and words began to pour out of her mouth as if she weren't the one saying them. "They're _dead_, Santana!" she yelled, scaring herself with the rage behind her voice. Santana jumped, her eyes widening. "They're dead, and nothing is going to bring them back! So you know what? Take back all the crap you've said about me, about Mike, about Finn, about _everyone_. Take it all back!"

Santana was frozen, and the cafeteria had fallen quiet, the entire student body looking over to where Tina was yelling (and when had she gotten to her feet?). On the far side of the room, Finn and Mercedes were both standing up, wondering if they should come over or just let Tina's freak-out play through to the end.

"_Take it back!_" Tina shouted.

Santana flinched, leaning back another couple of inches. "Okay, okay," she said quickly. "I'm sorry, all right? Can you calm down?"

Tina didn't answer, only snatching her book bag from the floor and running for the cafeteria door, knocking over her chair as she went.

As the door slammed shut behind Tina, Finn turned to Mercedes. "Should we go after her?"

Mercedes swallowed, but shook her head, watching Santana leave the cafeteria after Tina. "No. No, I think she needs to be alone right now. We'll see her at the assembly."

* * *

><p>It wasn't the first time that Tina had hidden out in the bathroom during the school day, but she'd always succeeded in holding her tears back until she was safely locked away in a stall. Today, though, her chest had begun heaving before she'd even made it out of the cafeteria. Her hands shook as she ran them under the cold tap water, splashing her already-wet face in a weak attempt to calm herself down.<p>

"Tina?" came a hesitant voice as the bathroom door opened.

Tina exhaled, hiccupping and wiping her face on her sleeve. "Leave me alone, Santana," she said hoarsely. "Please, just leave me alone. I don't want to listen to you telling me I'm a crybaby or a pathetic vampire or whatever else you're thinking of right now."

Santana leaned her hip against to the sink to Tina's left. "I wasn't going to say that."

"Just stop talking," Tina snapped, wanting nothing more than for the other girl to leave.

Santana obliged and remained quiet, but stayed where she was, watching Tina sob over the sink.

Eventually, as Tina's face and hands were beginning to tingle from the lack of oxygen, Santana spoke again, but rather than mention the fact that Tina's makeup was currently making her look like a mutant raccoon, she only asked, "You want a smoke?"

Tina took a long breath through her nose. "Yeah. I really do."


	4. Who's Singing Now?

_Who's Singing Now?_

..

"_Maybe that's all family really is - a group of people who all miss the same imaginary place._"

~Andrew Largeman, _Garden State_

..

"I always thought this place was supposed to be really trashy and gross, but I actually kind of like it," Tina observed as she tapped the ashes off the end of her Marlboro, looking up at the metal bleachers above her head. "It's quiet."

Santana made a noise of agreement, smoke curling out of her mouth. If she'd noticed that Tina's stutter seemed to have re-disappeared, she didn't say. "So, aren't you supposed to be upset that we're missing US History?" she asked.

Tina quirked an eyebrow. "Why, because I'm Asian?"

"Yeah."

"Well, going by your stereotype, how often have you missed US History already?" Tina retorted, taking a drag from her cigarette.

"Never."

"Really?"

Santana chuckled. "Might interest you to know that I'm a straight-A student. I'm near the top of the honor roll."

Tina rolled her eyes, smiling slightly. "Might interest _you_ to know that I'm a straight-C student. Nowhere near the honor roll."

The girls fell quiet for a few minutes as the smoke settling into their lungs relaxed them. Santana blew a few smoke rings, then asked, "So, what's your repeated imagery?"

Tina made a face. "My what?"

"My dad is a psychologist," Santana said. "Or a neurologist. Or something, I don't know. Anyways, he said that when people have PTSD, they have 'repeated imagery' – a short memory from the incident that keeps playing over and over in their head."

"If you keep talking like that, you'll end up in medical school."

Santana shrugged. "Well, that's where my parents want me to end up." She stuck her cigarette butt under her shoe, then pulled her legs up onto the ledge, wrapping her arms around her knees. "So? What's yours?"

Tina sighed, leaning her head back and blowing a billow of smoke up towards the bleachers. "Quinn's head landed in front of me," she said.

"Damn."

"What's yours?"

Santana shrugged, pulling out a second cigarette. "I just remember feeling like the bus was rolling over."

"Mine beats yours."

"Mm-hm."

* * *

><p>Mercedes peeked through the auditorium stage curtain at the sea of faces crowding the seats, feeling like there was a large snake writhing in the pit of her stomach. She noted bitterly that half of the student body looked upset enough to have personally experienced the accident and the other half were obviously wondering why they had to be there. She didn't know which was more disrespectful.<p>

A hand on her shoulder made her jump slightly, and Mr. Schue asked her if she was all right.

She pulled the curtain closed again. "I'm okay enough," she said.

"Have you seen Tina or Santana?" he inquired, glancing over his shoulder to where Finn was standing with Lauren and Blaine to make sure they hadn't turned up in the three seconds he'd had his back turned.

Mercedes shook her head, noticing that Mr. Schue looked even older now than he had at the last funeral they'd been to. "I haven't seen them since lunch."

Mr. Schue sighed. "Well, we might have to go on without them." He wrung his hands and then patted his pockets as if he was looking for his wallet. Mercedes had never seen him this restless.

Just then, Santana and Tina finally appeared, looking slightly rushed. "Where've you been?" asked Finn.

"I think I know," Lauren said, wrinkling her nose at the not-at-all-concealed smell of cigarette smoke.

"Shut it, Roseanne."

Lauren flipped her off, causing Mr. Schue to cut in with, "Guys, there's no need for the hostility, okay? We've got enough to worry about right now."

Figgins' Pakistani drawl suddenly sounded through the microphone on the other side of the curtain, and Mr. Schue motioned for everyone to go out onto the stage in front of the curtain. They wouldn't be needing any floor space for choreography today.

"Students, faculty…" Figgins started. "I would like to say good afternoon, but I'm afraid that, today, it would be inappropriate. We are gathered here to pay our respects to the students who lost their lives in a tragic accident two weeks ago." He glanced down to read from the slip of paper in his hand. "Kurt Hummel, Quinn Fabray, Michael Chang, Brittany Pierce, Arthur Abrams, Samuel Evans, and Rachel Berry. Please send your condolences and your prayers to them, their families, and their friends. For those of you hoping for news of Noah Puckerman's condition, I have been informed that he is still on life support, but he's been deemed stable and moved out of the ICU. And now, please give your attention to the New Directions."

Figgins gestured to where the remaining Glee members, along with Mr. Schue, had lined up along the front of the stage during his speech. The club looked remarkably lopsided with only five members, plus a teacher and a student from a different school altogether. Mercedes beckoned to Figgins to bring her the microphone.

"I'd like to say something," she started. Santana and Finn both glanced at her askance; this wasn't part of the program. "All of you are guilty."

Lauren leaned over, hissing "_What are you doing?_" under her breath.

"Every single one of you – and I'm talking to most of the teachers, too – has either intentionally made our lives miserable, or you've just stood by and watched," Mercedes continued, ignoring Lauren. "And now, you're all pretending that you knew them and that you feel this just as badly as we do, or you're rolling your eyes and not giving a crap. We don't even know if Puck is going to _live_, and you're sitting there wondering why we're being such drama queens." Mercedes gritted her teeth, trying not to cry in front of the whole school. "Well, you know what? You don't _deserve_ to pay your respects. So, if you think that this is a waste of everyone's time, just leave. We don't want you here."

The entire room fell completely silent, no one moving. After several uncomfortable seconds, a few of the hockey jocks sitting towards the back stood up, shoving their hands in their jacket pockets and swaggering out of the auditorium.

Mercedes exhaled heavily, handing the microphone back to Figgins. Strangely, she felt better. She was done talking. "_I don't want to be the one to say goodbye,_" she sang. "_But I will, I will, I will…_"

Blaine joined in from down the line, looking down rather than at the audience. "_I don't want to sit on the pavement while you fly, but I will, I will, oh yes, I will._"

Tina chimed in with, "_Cause maybe, in the future, you're gonna come back, you're gonna come back around. Maybe, in the future, you're gonna come back, you're gonna come back—_"

"_Oh, the only way to really know,_" Santana cut in, "_is to let it go…_"

As Blaine, Santana, and Finn finished the chorus, Mercedes couldn't help but wonder if Rachel and Kurt would be mad that they weren't singing something by Streisand.

Finn started in on the second verse, bringing Mercedes' thoughts back to the stage. "_I don't want to be the first to let it go… But I know, I know, I know, if you've got the last hands that I want to hold, then I know I've got to let them go._"

"_Cause maybe, in the future, you're gonna come back, you're gonna come back around…_" Mr. Schue joined in.

"_Oh, the only way to really know is to let it go…_"

Santana and Blaine's voices rolled together to sing the bridge, letting the words fly out over the audience. "_I still feel you on the right side of the bed, and I still feel you in the blankets pulled over my head, and I'm gonna wash away… Oh, I'm gonna wash away everything 'til you come home to me…_"

"_Maybe…_"


	5. Breathing Space

_Breathing Space_

..

"_It is not the strongest species that survives, nor the most intelligent.  
>It is the one most adaptable to change.<em>"

~Charles Darwin

..

Lauren had decided a long time ago that she really hated hospitals. Unfortunately for her (and contrary to popular belief), she did have a conscience, so she forced herself to walk through the Lima Memorial entrance at least once every other day. Today was Monday, and Puck hadn't moved or given so much as a groan since before he'd been bludgeoned by the metal sheet that had sliced through the bus. Lauren was fully aware of how narrowly he'd missed an instant death, but whether or not he was lucky remained to be seen. The doctors had been absolutely useless and said that they wouldn't be able to tell if he was brain damaged until he woke up – _if _he woke up. Lauren was beginning to suspect that Puck's mom was considering taking him off of life support. After all, she couldn't afford to keep him alive like this, and she was a cold-hearted bitch anyways. Lauren understood completely where Puck's psychological issues with women came from.

What? Just because she was a wrestler didn't mean she didn't know her Freudian theories.

She pursed her lips disapprovingly as she entered her boyfriend's hospital room for the fourth time that week. "Still asleep, huh? Asshole," she said. Puck wasn't the only patient here, but the other occupant was also in a coma, so Lauren felt free to talk just as if Puck were sitting up and looking her directly in the eye with that slightly bashful look he always got when she insulted him.

Man, their relationship was warped.

Lauren went over to the window and yanked the fat bouquet of wilting flowers from Puck's grandmother out of their vase, tossing them in the trash bin by the door without a second glance. "I can't believe your grandma brings you this crap," she drawled as she glared distastefully at a sparkly card with _To My Sick Grandson_ in flowery cursive. They seriously had cards for everything now.

Next to the four separate cards from Puck's grandmother was a crayon drawing taped to the window from his little sister. Lauren couldn't quite tell what it was, but she thought she could make out Puck in his hospital bed, out cold with his sister perched on top of his legs, plus a cat (or a dog) standing on the floor. "Sarah's a real Picasso, huh?" she said dryly. As far as she saw, there were no tokens of affection from his mom.

Lauren sighed, crossing her arms as she sank into the chair pulled up next to the bed. She sat quietly for a minute, staring at the heart monitor wired to Puck's chest as the green line slowly but steadily blipped every few seconds.

_Beep… Beep… Beep…_

She studied Puck's face – or what was visible of it from behind the breathing tube strapped to his mouth. There had been no change of his expression, and his eyes hadn't even moved beneath the lids. At least, not while Lauren was there. There had been gauze wrapped in layers around his shaved head (the doctors had gotten rid of the Mohawk), but now the layers were gone and all that remained was a line of stitches curving down the side of his forehead. Hidden on the back of his head was the injury that was keeping him asleep – a massive bruised and scabbed-over dent where Puck's head had formerly been dome-shaped. Just after Puck had been moved out of the ICU and into the coma ward, Lauren had carefully rolled his head to the side and nearly thrown up when she saw his skull caved in, even though it was barely an eighth of an inch deep.

Lauren swallowed, trying not to think about what Puck might be like if – _when_ – he woke up. The doctors had all said that he could be completely fine (though they hadn't sounded at all hopeful then), or he could be in a permanent vegetative state. She sighed. "The memorial was this afternoon," she said quietly. "I never realized just how much I hate school until today. A few of the assholes you used to hang out with walked out. I don't think even you would've done that."

She fell silent again for a few minutes, instinctively waiting for a response.

_Beep… Beep… Beep…_

"The doctors said that you might be a vegetable for the rest of your life," she started again. She'd never been one to dance around the elephant in the room. "But if that happens, I'll kill you myself. I'm not going to date some drooling guy in a wheelchair."

_Beep… Beep… Beep…_

Lauren swallowed, furious at herself for even having a lump in her throat. She inhaled slowly, glanced towards the doorway to make sure that there was no one looking in from the hallway, then scooted her chair a little closer and reached out and took Puck's hand in one of her own. His skin was a little cold to the touch, which for some reason struck her as odd. He had a large cut running down the back of his wrist (the doctor had said it was probably from a large piece of flying glass), and there were little lines of dirt under his fingernails. Lauren felt a little embarrassed to be holding his hand, even though the only other person who could have seen them was also hooked up to a breathing tube. The last time Puck had tried to hold her hand, she'd punched him as a reflex. He'd learned his lesson that time.

"Everything's different," she said, refusing to look at his face. "I don't know if I want you to come back."

_Beep… Beep… Beep… _

* * *

><p>Tuesday afternoon found the remaining Glee kids in the choir room, all quietly waiting for Mr. Schue to arrive. None of them were quite sure if the club was even continuing – they'd never been able to score more than one or two new members when they needed to, and now with half the club six feet under, they had bad luck stamped on their foreheads. People avoided them – most of the other students avoided them, and there had been zero instances of bullying since they'd returned to school, as if their misery was deadly contagious. They hadn't even really interacted with each other much since the funerals, aside from the day of the memorial. Only Tina and Santana seemed joined at the hip, even though they rarely spoke to each other. The two girls had somehow automatically begun sitting beside one another in classes, the cafeteria, and wherever else it was required for them to be seated.<p>

After several minutes of uncomfortable silence, Mr. Schue finally walked in with Miss Pillsbury teetering along behind. Mr. Schue just looked, well… _old_, and Miss Pillsbury looked absolutely petrified. She wrung her hands in front of her skirt, trying not to make it obvious that she was doing so, and stood rigidly next to Schuester as he began to speak.

"Well, first off, thank you guys for coming to this meeting," he said, looking half at the floor and half at the kids' shoes. "I know it's… it's been hard. We're all really struggling, but I want you to know that no matter what, Miss Pillsbury and I are here for you to talk to about anything at all."

"I have some excellent pamphlets on grief management," she interjected, her voice trembling. "And I can give you all the numbers of several therapists who all specialize in this sort of… circumstance."

Mercedes shook her head, swallowing. "Do you really think that therapy will do anything here?" she asked flatly.

Miss Pillsbury swayed a little on her high heels, as if she'd been hit with a sudden gust of wind. "Well, um, therapy isn't a cure for anything, but it's a step in the right direction."

Santana interrupted with a deep frown. "How would you even know what the right direction is? You weren't there."

"N-no, but I've been trained in this—"

"Look, you can _train_ in the wrestling ring all you want," Lauren cut in harshly. "But once you're actually in a real match, training has nothing to do with it."

"Hey, guys," Mr. Schue stopped them, finally looking up. "Miss Pillsbury is offering to help you. There's no need for the hostility." But even as he said it, it didn't quite sound like he cared whether his students were hostile or not. His voice was stretched thin and tired, and even his hair seemed flat.

"Yes, Tina?" he said after a moment of silence, noticing that Tina had her hand raised slightly.

"Um… I just wanted to know…" she started, fiddling with a safety pin in the cuff of her sweatshirt. "Are… are we continuing the glee club?"

Mr. Schue's shoulders slumped. "I don't know yet. We don't have enough members to compete any more, so unless we got seven more, then we won't be showing at next years Sectionals. But… if keeping the club together is something you all want, then I'm sure Figgins would allow it."

The students glanced back and forth between one another for a second, all of them unsure.

"You don't have to decide right away," Mr. Schue said. "You can talk about it with each other and then let me know one way or the other."

"Mr. Schue?" Mercedes said. "If this is our last meeting, then… I'd like to sing something. Just in case I don't get the chance again."

Mr. Schue nodded and moved aside, taking the chair beside Finn, and Miss Pillsbury sat primly next to him. Mercedes stood awkwardly in front of the small group, looking oddly out of place. "This is just how I'm feeling," she said. "Need to let it out somewhere." Her fingers flexed nervously for a moment and she bit her lip before beginning to sing. The band members weren't present, so the only sound in the room was Mercedes' voice.

"_When you were standing in the wake of devastation…_" she started softly, her eyes glued to the floor. "_When you were waiting on the edge of the unknown… With the cataclysm raining down, your insides crying 'Save me now' – you were there, impossibly unknown…_"

Finn watched silently as a gigantic snake twisted in the pit of his stomach. A muscle in his jaw twitched, his hands clenching and unclenching in his sweatshirt pockets.

"_And in a burst of light that blinded every angel, as if the sky had blown the heavens into stars, you felt the gravity of tempered grace, falling into empty space, with no one their to catch you in their arms…_"

Mercedes took a deep breath, shuddering slightly before she began the chorus.

"_Do you feel cold and lost in desperation? You build up hope, but—_"

Her voice faltered and came to a stop as Finn abruptly lurched to his feet, hunching his shoulders and all but running out of the room. "Finn!" Mr. Schue called, but Finn had already disappeared into the hall.

"I'll go talk to him," Mercedes assured them, hurrying after him.

She found him at his locker, shoving books haphazardly into his backpack. "Are you okay?"

Finn stopped what he was doing, glaring into his locker, his fingers gripping his backpack so tightly that his knuckles were white. "How could you do that?" he said so quietly that she wasn't sure she'd heard him.

"Do what?"

He slammed his locker shut and jerked at the zipper on his bag. "It's Rachel's job to do what you're doing," he snapped.

"What are you talking about? What am I doing?"

"Stealing the spotlight!" he spat, his voice suddenly rising in volume. "_Rachel _is supposed to be the one singing cheesy songs to try and make everyone feel better, _not_ you! You're _happy_ she's gone!"

The air left Mercedes' lungs as if she'd been kicked swiftly in the stomach. Her mouth hung open, unable to form words.

"I can't believe you wouldn't even wait a freaking _month_ before grabbing her spot!" Finn continued, his lip curling as he threw his backpack over his shoulder. "Rachel would never have done that to you."

"Finn, Rachel is _gone_," Mercedes said firmly. "And so is Kurt. And I'm so, so sorry. But you don't have any right to speak to me that way—"

"_You_ don't have any right to—!"

"Let me finish!"

Finn's jaw clamped shut in surprise.

"You have no right to pretend that you're alone. All that I'm trying to do – all that _any_ of us are trying to do – is be _together_. You think I sang that song because I'm grabbing for solos? That's cheap, Finn. It's disrespectful to me, to Rachel, to Kurt, to _everyone_. You have to—"

"Don't tell me what to—"

"_Let. Me. Finish._" Mercedes glared until Finn huffed and fell quiet again. "The way that you're dealing with this isn't healthy for you or anyone else. You're being childish and selfish."

Finn lost his patience then, his voice rising again. "Don't talk down to me! You aren't my mother and you're not my therapist!"

Mercedes' voice rose to match his. "I'm your friend! I'm giving you some advice because you're—"

"I don't _need_ advice!" Finn lurched towards her, looking almost like he intended to punch her. "I need you to _leave me alone!_"

Mercedes grabbed his arm as he turned to leave, but he threw her off and took a threatening step towards her again. "You want to hit me?" Mercedes challenged. "Go ahead. Go on!"

Finn's hands curled into fists, his face twisting.

"Go on!"

"Look, whatever I do it's not gonna—"

"_Go on!_"

"_Leave me alone!_" Finn shouted, his arms lashing out and giving Mercedes a rough shove. Her back slammed into the lockers, but she managed to stay on her feet. Finn's eyes widened, as if he was surprised by his actions.

"That make you feel better?" Mercedes asked, her voice resuming its normal volume.

Finn swallowed.

"I didn't think so." She straightened her clothes, planting her hands on her hips. "Go to the gym, hit a pillow, do whatever you need to do. Once you can get over yourself and start actually working to feel better, then let me know. I'll be whatever you need me to be. But I am _not_ your punching bag."

She turned on her toes and headed back down the hallway, leaving Finn alone like he wanted.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Credit for the song goes to Linkin Park.**


	6. Watertower

_Watertower_

..

"_All souls are hostages to their human envelopes, but  
>souls must decay and suffer at such indignity - don't you<em> _agree?_"

~Gregory Maguire, _Wicked_

..

In the farthest corner of the Lima Bean coffee shop, sitting at a table with only one chair and a medium drip going cold on the table, Blaine was leaning back in his chair and absorbed in his phone. He'd made sure ever since the funeral to avoid the usual table where he and Kurt sat like the plague, instead claiming the corner territory as his own. He didn't even really like coming back to the Lima Bean at all, but it seemed oddly enough to make him feel better at the same time as making him feel worse. Plus, it was the only place where he could go and actually feel somewhat relaxed.

Before the accident, Blaine and Kurt had usually spent about an hour in the Lima Bean every weekday, maximum. Now, Blaine never stayed for less than three hours, and was there on the weekends too. At home, his father continuously tried to convince him that it wasn't such a big loss, because, after all, it was God sending Blaine a very specific and direct message that sodomizing was a sin. Blaine had responded the first time by attempting (_very _unsuccessfully, since his father was six-foot-five) to punch him in the face, but every time the subject was brought up, he'd made a habit of silently leaving the room, sometimes leaving the house altogether.

Blaine wished that he'd heard about the accident from an actual person rather than seeing it on TV at Dalton during study hall, but at least the knowledge that Kurt was gone came fairly quickly. The crash had happened several hours earlier before it finally reached the Ohio news network, and by that point, the names had already been released. He'd been focusing hard on his physics homework with his iPod plugged in to block out the droning of the TV, which some of the other boys insisted helped their concentration even though they weren't watching it, when Wes urgently jabbed Blaine's shoulder, shaking him out of his Katy Perry cloud. Blaine pulled out his earbuds, looking around the room to see that every single student in the room had stopped working and was watching the television, completely silent. Several of the Warbler members had their hands over their mouths, and Trent's eyes were wide as dinner plates.

"What's going on?" Blaine asked, frowning at the TV.

Wes didn't need to reply.

Now, Blaine was sitting in the Lima Bean, alone, flipping through the few photos of himself and Kurt on his phone. He'd forgotten about his coffee four hours ago, and hadn't paid any attention to any of the other patrons, nor had he moved at all since he'd sat down. It was closing in on five in the evening when a voice brought his focus away from his phone's tiny screen. He raised his head with an absent-minded "Huh?" before noticing that it was Dave Karofsky standing in front of him, wearing a Lima Bean hat and polyester green apron.

"Um," was Blaine's eloquent response.

Dave looked nervous, and he shuffled his feet a little. "Are… are you okay? My boss said you've been here since lunchtime."

Blaine forgot his confusion at seeing Kurt's former tormentor employed at his favorite hangout, and snapped back, "Whether I'm okay or not is none of your business."

"I know," said Dave. "But… I was just wondering."

Blaine felt bile rise in his throat. "You spent _years_ torturing Kurt, and you traumatized and _assaulted_ him. He was miserable because of you. Then you decide to crash his funeral, and now you have the gall to ask me if I'm okay?" Blaine was surprised at the deadened tone in his voice.

Dave swallowed. "I wanted to pay my respects."

"You had your chance when he was alive."

Blaine was expecting Dave to argue, or at least mildly protest, but instead he only nodded. "I'll leave you alone, then."

"Don't bother," Blaine said, shoving his phone into his pocket and slinging his bag over his shoulder as he stood up. He reached for his coffee, not-so-subtly letting his hand slip and tip the mug over, letting the contents splash across the table. "Whoops," he said, brushing past and leaving Dave to clean up.

* * *

><p>Santana was lying back on her bed, staring at her ceiling as Tina sat idly on the chair in front of the vanity table with one leg drawn up to rest on the seat. Lord Tubbington, who Brittany's parents had given to Santana after the funeral, had somehow pancaked himself on the floor, letting his stomach spread out underneath him like a furry puddle. Santana's legs were hanging off her mattress and she was wondering why the hell she'd chosen to leave her ceiling white when her walls were painted black. The ceiling wasn't even white any more – it was more like the color of a baby's spit-up, the thought of which made her grimace and sit up so that she didn't have to look at it any more.<p>

"Why did you never talk about your family before?" Tina asked abruptly, looking at the photo on the bureau of the extensive Lopez clan.

"I was the Head Bitch In Charge for a reason," Santana said dryly, scratching behind Lord Tubbington's ears. "I don't do personal talking. It's just not my thing."

Tina frowned, though it wasn't for the reason that Santana expected. "…Aren't you still the Head Bitch?"

Santana sighed, leaning against the wall behind her bed and crossing her arms over her chest. "I don't know," she said quietly. "Honestly, the whole idea of it seems boring to me now." There was a long minute of silence before Santana spoke again. "I quit the Cheerios."

Tina didn't look surprised or confused, which in turn surprised and confused Santana. Rather than inquire as to why, Tina only asked how Coach Sylvester had taken it.

Santana shrugged. "She's got Little Miss Downs to be team captain. Plus, she said she's sure I'll be back once I get rid of both my emotional and silicon baggage."

"Do you plan to go back?"

Santana merely shook her head, studying her hands in her lap.

"I miss the old us."

Tina had said it so quietly that Santana wasn't sure she'd said anything. "Old?" she echoed. "Jesus, Chang, it wasn't even three weeks ago!"

"My name is Tina."

Santana's jaw clamped shut. She wasn't used to that sort of tone (or the vaguely threatening glare) coming from the shy Asian girl. It was confusing. Tina was even starting to dress more like she had in freshman year, and the number of safety pins in her sleeves had increased. Santana wondered if Tina knew it was obvious.

She kept her mouth shut and bent down to scratch Lord Tubbington's ears.

* * *

><p>Wes enjoyed his weekly escapades in the Dalton fight club. Dalton was a school that demanded excellence, and with excellence came stress. He'd heard about the fight club soon after he'd started at Dalton, just through hushed conversations between the other students, and had eventually noticed that every single kid who had a nervous breakdown and left the school was <em>not<em> a member. So, he'd figured it was in his best interests to join.

He'd gotten a couple scars over the last couple years, but nothing really serious (after all, they were teenagers, not Olympic boxers), and his stress levels generally remained well below what they'd normally been before his signup. He'd built up some muscle, learned most of the other boys' strategies, and eventually started helping with the club's organization even though David officially ran it. Since Wes was a natural leader with a genuine caring streak, all the other students he believed he was somewhat responsible for remained on his radar twenty-four-seven until graduation.

Blaine was one of those people, and right now, Blaine was also the biggest blip on Wes's radar screen.

So, naturally, Wes was a little concerned when he saw Blaine quietly enter the old abandoned gym building where the fight club meetings were held on Friday nights. He'd barely noticed Blaine come in, since the lead Warbler was short to begin with but had also recently developed a habit of hunching down when he walked. Blaine hung towards the back of the large group of boys watching Trent and Jeff punch each other in the middle of the floor, his face lacking in expression. Circling around the group, Wes approached Blaine, who was just unbuttoning his shirt in preparation for a fight.

"What are you doing here, Blaine?"

Blaine looked up, his large eyebrows pulling together. He pulled his shirt off so that his upper half was clad in only a wife beater. "So the founder of the club isn't allowed in any more?" he asked, sloppily folding his shirt and tossing it on the ground in the corner.

"You know that you're always welcome, Blaine," Wes started, ignoring a grunt from Jeff as Trent drove his knuckles into the blond boy's side. "But I'm a little worried that you're not in the right place right now to be a part of this."

"Isn't that the point?" Blaine replied evenly, meeting Wes's eyes with an unnerving levelness. "To get rid of stress?"

"Stress, yes. Grief, no."

"Grief _is_ stress," Blaine countered, pulling off his undershirt and tossing it onto his other discarded shirt. "I'll be fine." He gave Wes a tight smile and turned towards where Jeff was currently sending his fist into Trent's jaw with a loud _thwack_, breaking eye contact signaling that the conversation was over.

Wes sighed and backed off, crossing his arms over his chest as he waited for the ongoing fight to finish.

Eventually, Jeff signaled for Trent to stop, and they chuckled and high-fived as a few others clapped or whooped.

"Okay, who's up next?" called Thad.

Blaine stepped into the middle of the floor, and Thad's grin faltered for a moment, but rather than comment he asked who would be Blaine's opponent.

Wes took a deep breath and stepped forward. He was bigger than Blaine, and older by a couple of years, and if Blaine was going to lose it, Wes figured that it was better Blaine do minimal damage to him rather than maximum damage to one of the younger Daltoners who were anxious to fight.

The two boys circled each other for a few moments as Wes waited for Blaine to make the first move so that he could try to make out just how messed up in the head Blaine was at the moment.

Blaine thrust his fist out towards Wes's abdomen, but the taller boy quickly deflected, stepping to the right. Blaine tried to strike again, but Wes managed to dodge a second time. This repeated for about a minute, and Wes could see that Blaine was quickly getting annoyed.

"Come on, hit me," Blaine hissed, glaring at Wes with a (slightly frightening) glint in his eye. "Quit playing games."

Wes said nothing, easily stepping away from another careless punch. He had a feeling that Blaine was either going to snap or just storm out, and Wes figured that one or the other needed to happen or Blaine would lose his mind.

"Come on, Montgomery," Blaine growled lowly. "Let's go already."

None of the spectators were cheering or even smiling. The entire group could see exactly what Wes was trying to do and why, and the tension was enough to make several of them hold their breath.

Finally, Blaine lunged before Wes had a chance to move out of the way, and the smaller boy's fist was driven with an alarming amount of force into Wes's lower stomach just above his groin. Wes groaned and doubled over, feeling dizzy from the blow, and was suddenly struck again, this time in the side of his face. The crack to his jawbone was enough to make Wes lose his balance and fall over backwards, his arms reflexively jerking up to protect himself as Blaine dove at him with both fists in full swing.

Several of the boys were shouting now, yelling that this wasn't a civil fight and that there had to be some rule against this, but Wes was pretty sure that Blaine couldn't hear them. Blaine was gritting his teeth and letting out a grunt of frustration every time he drove his fist into Wes's stomach.

Finally, Wes threw his hands up, somehow managing to grab Blaine's wrists and hold them at a length so that his body was almost suspended over Wes. David stepped forward and grabbed Blaine from behind, pulling him away from Wes and setting him on his feet.

Blaine gave David an angry shove. "What the hell are you doing?" he panted. "This fight doesn't end until one of us says it does."

"No, this fight ends _now_," David replied sternly. His arm was against Blaine's chest, keeping him away from Wes, who was pulling himself stiffly to his feet, wiping blood away from his cheek and split lip.

Blaine's eyes narrowed, and just as he drew his fist back to hit David, David beat him to it. There was a solid, wet-sounding _crack_, and Blaine let out a yell, his hand over his face as blood seeped through his fingers. David grabbed his shoulders so that Blaine wouldn't fall.

"Come on," David said gently. "I've got a first aid kit in my car."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Please leave feedback - this particular story is very important to me and I want to know what you think and what I can improve on.**


End file.
